She had a staff meeting at the paper in twenty minutes, but on her way back she pulled into the Sugar Bend police station. The woman behind the desk was as thick as a tree trunk, with a generous, sturdy chest and short, tight curls. When Liza mentioned that she was with the paper and had a question or two for a police officer, the woman sniffed.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to call and make an appointment for that. We’re pretty busy today.”

Liza glanced behind the woman to the silent room. Three desks lined the wall, and a hallway at the back led to a kitchen, where the smell of burned coffee curled out of the doorway. She could see a single jail cell through a doorway at the back of the hallway. The cell was empty.

Just then, a young officer walked out of the kitchen, a Styrofoam cup to his lips. He swallowed and winced. “How long has this coffee been sitting here?”

“Well, let’s see, I made it when I got in this morning, so . . .” The woman glanced at her watch. “I’d say about five hours. I only make one pot a day. You want any more, you best make it yourself.” She shot a glance at Liza. “Boy’s old enough to know how to make his own coffee.”

“I heard that and I know how to make coffee, Fay.”

“Good. Now, this lady here is wanting to ask you some questions. I told her she needed to make an appointment.”

He raised his head and seemed to notice Liza for the first time. He straightened. “What kind of questions?”

“I’m with The Sugar Bend Observer and—”

“Police don’t make a habit of talking to reporters,” Fay interrupted.

Behind her, the officer laughed. “It’s okay.” He pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “You can come on back.”

She hung her bag on the back of the chair and sat. The placard on his desk read Officer Justin Roby.

“Don’t worry about her,” he said loud enough for Fay to hear. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“My bite is bad enough,” Fay said. “I’ll be in the kitchen, not making another pot of coffee.”

When she was gone, he stuck his hand out. “I’m Justin. Sorry about all that.” He sat back in his chair. “How can I help you? You said you’re with the paper?”

“That’s right. I’m doing some research on a story, and I’m curious about something. What would you say if someone had information about a missing-person case?” His eyebrows lifted a bit. “From forty years ago.”

He laced his fingers together and rested them on the desk. “It depends. What missing-person case are we talking about?”

She puffed out a laugh. “You don’t read The Observer?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Well, I found something that could, maybe, have something to do with a man named Jay Malone who went missing in 1982.”

He sat forward in his seat. “Right, I did hear about this. It’s the boat that washed up, isn’t it? I asked my . . . well, I’ve been doing a little digging of my own. Are you just talking about the boat itself, or did you find something else?”